


Truth Was

by keep_waking_up



Category: Supernatural
Genre: (See notes) - Freeform, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Child Neglect, Extremely Underage, Frottage, General Creepiness, M/M, Mute Sam Winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-05
Updated: 2016-01-05
Packaged: 2018-05-11 20:35:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,369
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5641024
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/keep_waking_up/pseuds/keep_waking_up
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They said the Winchester house was haunted.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Truth Was

**Author's Note:**

  * For [](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts).



> While not specified within the story, Sam and Dean are around 8 and 12 respectively.

_They said the Winchester house was haunted.  “What else could it be?” they murmured, eyes ever darting in the direction of the old plantation manor, even though it couldn’t be seen.  It cast a shadow far larger than its actual size over the town, stories handed down through generations and grown larger with age.  Even as the family dwelling within deteriorated, the house still loomed imposing and severe over Lawrence, South Carolina._

_Even fire had failed to rid the town of the house’s presence.  Instead, it was as if the death of Mary Winchester had only strengthened it, her screams swallowed by the same ancient walls that smothered the fire once it was done burning her alive.  “It ain’t right,” people said, and speculated about murder, devil worship, and ghosts.  They shied away from John Winchester when he came into town, from his wooden eyes and white teeth.  “That poor girl,” they said, and watched him like a herd of deer watch a lone wolf.  “May she haunt him for the rest of his days.”_

_Missouri Moseley shook her head over all of them.  She was approaching ninety, and was just as ruthlessly efficient as she had been at twenty, if not more so.  “Girl knew what she was gettin’ into,” she’d say loudly, although she didn’t care who listened.  “Them Winchesters, tragedy’s in their blood.  Ain’t a one of ‘em that wasn’t bent on gettin’ themself killed as horribly as possible.”  She clucked her tongue over the whole matter, dismissing as ridiculous any other opinion.  “I told Mary before she married John.  She knew what she was gettin’ into.  It’s those boys I pity.  They ain’t got a prayer.”_

_The Winchester boys were as much ghosts as their mother was to the people of Lawrence, despite their dubious honor of being alive.  Elusive creatures, word was their father left them to run wild in the halls of the old house, without another soul to look after them.  People despaired of their humanity._

_Kubrick swore that he’d seen them once while dropping off boxes of bullets John had ordered.  Whenever called upon to tell the story, he rolled back the sleeve of his left arm to show a sharp, oval-shaped scar.  “First they both jus’ stared at me, like they were dead.  I’mma tryin’ to talk to ‘em, get ‘em to understand what to do with those bullets.  But they jus’ stare.  So I reach out, just to shake the older boy a bit, make sure he understands.  And the younger one lunges forward and bites down on my arm like an animal.  Soon’s I throw him off, the older one starts screaming at me, cursing up a storm, saying he’ll’a kill me if I touch his brother again.”  Here, Kubrick always leaned forward, using those eyes of his more than his words.  “Savage, I tell you.  Those boys jus’ ain’t right.  I dunno why the services haven’t come’n taken ‘em away yet.”_

_Indeed, Child Protective Services had been called several times.  But the house took care of its own; each time, the government workers were soundly routed.  One time it was a pothole too large to be driven through; the next a broken bridge.  Whenever any agent was able to make it to the door, they were always greeted by John Winchester, despite the fact that no one had seen him return to town._

_No one knew what John Winchester did when he was gone, except that he carried two guns on his person and stood like he’d be able to fire one at any moment.  Some said he’d been like that since he’d come home from the war; some said it was the death of his wife that had turned him cold and dark and brutal.  Those with longer memories recalled John as a boy of sixteen, racing across the roads around Lawrence in his papa’s old Impala, gunning the engine like he was looking to crash.  He hadn’t slowed down since; even when Mary was heavy with child, the two of them would speed around in that car into the late hours of the night, with the windows down and the lights bright.  The first boy, the eldest, had been born in the backseat, dark blood invisible on black leather, his first screams louder than the rumble of the engine.  The second one had simply appeared one day, cradled in Mary’s arms; no one, save Missouri Moseley, had even known she was pregnant._

_One time, John took his boys into town.  People stared at the sight of the three of them, the trinity of old, young, and younger.  John sat the boys down in Ellen’s diner and got them one milkshake to share.  The boys drank it down in quick, loud slurps, while their hands clutched the cold glass like claws.  The elder’s eyes, green as the leaves of devil’s snare, darted around the restaurant ceaselessly, eyes wide like he wanted to watch all of them at once.  Whenever Ellen approached them, he curved protectively over his younger brother, knobby spine presented like a shield.  Neither of them spoke._

_“There’s something wrong with those boys,” everyone agreed, and stayed as far away from the old plantation house and the two boys inside it as possible.  Which was just how the house liked it._

*

“I know what you did,” Dean told Sam one day.  “You sold your voice to a sea witch.”

They were four years apart; otherwise, their ages were indefinable.  All Sam knew was that Dean’s legs had gotten longer, his hands larger.  There were two red spots on his face that weren’t pimples.  Otherwise, everything was the same as it had always been.  Sam couldn’t remember a life before this house, his brother, and his brother’s voice.

 _That’s stupid,_ Sam thought.  _That’s a fairytale.  And when would I have met a sea witch?_

Dean heard him, the way he always he heard him, even though no one else could, besides maybe the house.  “You sold your voice to keep Dad safe,” he guessed.  When Sam shook his head, Dean changed tracks.  “You sold your voice to try to change the past.  Or the future.”

Dean liked to make up stories.  It was their favorite game, Dean talking, creating the scene from the air, like straw to gold.  Sam didn’t have a voice, so he couldn’t make things the same way.  He got final say, though.  It was up to him whether the story was true or not.

 _Wouldn’t sell my voice to a sea witch_ , he decided.  _You have it wrong.  Try it again_.

Dean wasn’t always willing to give up his version.  He wormed closer to Sam, laying down on top of him, nose-to-nose, thighs-to-knees.  “You sold your voice to a sea witch, because you wanted to be born human.”

Sam lay perfectly still beneath his brother.  _I sold my voice to a sea witch because I wanted to be born your brother._

Dean smiled like the sun coming out, like warm sheets on a cold morning, like hot chocolate on his tongue.  He leaned down and kissed Sam hard, on the mouth.  “Mwah,” he said, like the kiss itself wasn’t enough.  “You sold your voice to a sea witch because you could see how lonely I was,” he amended.  “You could see how lonely I was and you wanted to make me happier.  Because you’re too nice.”  Wrinkles appeared between his eyebrows.  “You shouldn’t have sold your voice, Sam.”

Sam pressed his thumb to the wrinkles until they went away.  _I didn’t, remember?  It’s a fairytale.  And not a good one.  She turned into sea foam because she couldn’t kill the prince or make him love her._

“You don’t have to make me love you,” Dean told him, and let even more of his weight sink down on Sam.  “You’re the only thing I love.”

 _I know_.

“I’d want you to kill me, instead of turning into sea foam.”

 _I wouldn’t_.

Dean got off him.  “That’s stupid,” he said, too old to stomp his foot, maybe.  “You’re not allowed to turn into sea foam, Sam.”

 _It’s just a fairytale_ , Sam reminded him, sitting up.  _I didn’t sell my voice to a sea witch.  I don’t have to make you love me or kill you.  I won’t turn into sea foam._

Dean knelt in front of him and wrapped his hand around Sam’s throat.  He squeezed, just a little, until Sam grabbed his wrist.  Then he let go and pulled Sam into his lap.  “We need a new story then.”

Sam pressed one of his chubby cheeks against Dean’s own.  _We’ll think of something_.

They always thought of something.

*

The truth was.

*

Mary had taught Dean how to speak and the old radio John left behind had done the rest.  Once they were big enough, Sam and Dean had moved the radio from downstairs up to their room.  They left it on all the time, even while they slept, the old box squeaking out melodies that melted into their dreams.

Sometimes, a song would come on the radio that Mary used to sing and Dean would try to describe her to Sam.  “She was like the sun,” he said.  “Or like rain during a thunderstorm.  Or the way you laughed that one time when you fell in the mud.  She was like that.”

 _She was like you_ , Sam said once and Dean got so furious that he spent the night in their dad’s room, with the dust.

The next day, he held Sam down until he understood.  “She wasn’t like me,” Dean told him sternly.  “She was much, much better.  She was like you.”

Sam knew Dean was wrong, though.  He saw a picture once, slipped it out of their dad’s wallet when he was home.  Mary looked warm and golden and loving, like Dean.  Sam didn’t know how he looked, because there was only one mirror in the house and both he and Dean were too short to see in it.  But he knew his hair was brown between his fingers and that his nose was long under his palm.  And he knew he wasn’t good the way Dean was and their mom had been.  But he didn’t say anything, because Dean didn’t want him to.

Sam wasn’t good at not saying things.  He didn’t have the practice.

 _I hate you.  I love you_ , he said to his dad the next time he left.  John didn’t hear him.  John couldn’t hear him.

Dean hit him later.  “You can’t say things like that!” he said, trembling a little.  “You can’t say that to Dad.”

 _Which one?_ Sam asked.

Dean looked wounded.  “Either of them.”

*

The truth was.

*

One time, sullen, Dean said, “You reached down your throat and ripped out your voice because you hate me.”

Sam balled up his hands and tried not to burst into tears.  _I love you, I love you, I love you._

“Then why won’t you say it?”

Sam couldn’t do anything but shake his head.

Dean started pacing the room.  “Then it’s not real, is it?  If you can’t say it, it’s not real.”

_Then you say it._

Quivering like a startled deer, Dean stopped.  “I say it all the time.”

 _No.  Say it for me._ When Dean shook his head, Sam pressed harder.  _If it’s not real unless you say, then you have to say it for me, Dean.  It’s_ got _to be real._

Dean pressed their foreheads together, then their noses, then their lips.  “You love me,” he whispered.  “You love me, Sammy.”

Sam kissed him, shy and breathless, because no one had ever _said_ it before.  He ran his hands over Dean’s cheeks, through his hair, down his neck.  _I do_ , he promised.  _I do._

*

The truth was.

*

The radio told them about sex.  It told them about sex like it was only between a man and a woman.  So what they did wasn’t sex, wasn’t incest.  It was just pushing together, rolling against each other, moving.  Sam’s hair stuck to the nape of his neck as he mouthed at Dean’s shoulder, pulling him closer like they could meld together.  Dean made a lot of noise, high-pitched and sweet, but all Sam did was gasp soundlessly.

 _If I’d sold my voice to the sea witch_ , Sam said afterward one time and Dean started laughing so hard that Sam couldn’t finish for a while.  He was too busy basking in the sound.  _If I’d sold my voice to the sea witch_ , Sam started again, _I would’ve wished for us to be sewn together.  Or for us to be the same person.  So we could do_ that _all the time._

Dean rolled over, pushed up on one elbow so he could leer down at Sam.  “Like that, did you?”

 _Jerk_.  Sam shoved at him playfully.  _You know I did_.

Laughing, Dean flopped back on top of him, licking across the line of his lips.  “You’re making it too complicated.  You should have just wished for us to be able to do that forever.”

 _Okay_.  Sam kissed him with his mouth open, tangling their tongues together like the rest of them are.  _I want to do that.  Forever._

“Okay,” Dean repeated breathlessly when Sam was finally done kissing him.  We can do that.

*

 _The truth was Dean didn’t want Sam to talk.  Not really.  The house didn’t want it either, in the end.  If Sam had been able to talk, he would have made things real they didn’t want to hear.  He might have said_ I hate my father, I hate him, I want him dead, I want to kill him.  _He might have said_ I love my brother, I love him too much, I want to wrap my arms around every part of him and never let him go.  _He might have said_ This house is killing me, I swear to god, it’s suffocating both of us slowly, Dean.  _He might have said_ We need to leave, to get out, to go out where it’s not just you and me and this house _and no one could have that._

_It was easier not to talk when he couldn’t speak._

*

 _They said the Winchester house was haunted._


End file.
